


Thunder From Down Under

by dotchan



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Other, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 08:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15045086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotchan/pseuds/dotchan
Summary: So I was channel surfing and while I was passing through "Project Runway: Teams", that particular episode happened to feature an Australian male stripper group called "The Thunder from Down Under"; cue the plot bunnies.  (Sniper/Gender Indeterminate "You")Written in 2013.





	Thunder From Down Under

The driving bass does little to drown out the throngs of screaming women that you are surrounded by and you find yourself wondering yet again why the first thing the Sniper had done upon visiting him after he'd been moved to a different base was to give you a VIP backstage pass to a performance of "The Thunder Down Under" or why you had taken him up on this invitation. It is obvious from the name what sort of show to expect, and you don't mind getting an eyeful of handsome men stripping down to their birthday suits, but you don't quite see the point in watching complete strangers who do this sort of thing for a living.    
  
Except for a brief once-over to evaluate each performer as they saunter onto the stage--not too bad, you suppose, but there's a point at which you can't help but feel that all those bulging muscles stop looking attractive--you pretty much tune out most of the show.    
  
"And now, sheilahs, 'ave we got something special for you tonoight!" The emcee does a fancy twirling maneuver with his hands before pointing off-stage. "Out of retirement just for this show, please give it up for Jackaroo Wankah!"    
  
You're too busy rolling your eyes at the ridiculous moniker to notice this "Wankah" at first, but when he takes center stage you all but dislocate your jaw when you realize that he is none other than the Sniper. He is even wearing an outfit similar to his old work uniform--though, of course, that one didn't have pull-away assless chaps.    
  
The Sniper gyrates his hips to the rhythm of the music, basking in the attention of the audience, now worked up to a frothing frenzy. He aims a wink at you (or so you hope) as he twirls and peels off his shirt, running his tongue over the snaggletooth that you always tease him about. You stare, transfixed, as he continues to dance his clothes off piece by piece until all he is wearing is an Australia flag-patterned g-string.    
  
"What do you think, darls? Should 'e go all the way starkers?" At this, the crowd roars its approval. "Well, you 'eard 'em, Wankah! Take it off! Take it off!"    
  
The Sniper grins a mile wide as the chant gets taken up by everyone present, yourself included. Taking his sweet time, he runs his fingers down the length of his torso before taking up the drawstrings holding the bikini bottom together and, bit by agonizing bit, pulls them apart.    
  
The noise is so deafening now that you swear the building has begun to shake, all the more so when the Sniper starts swinging the bit of cloth in his hand, as if he's going to let it fly into the mass of shrieking, wolf-whistling, waving, jumping, fainting people.    
  
You are almost trampled as the mob chases after the souvenir the Sniper lets loose, but you manage to stand your ground. In the meantime, the Sniper continues to undulate to the music, pacing back and forth along the length of the stage. Behind you, you hear the g-string being claimed by a triumphant fan, and then all eyes are once again back on the stage, where both the music and hypnotic movements are building up to a climax. You find yourself holding your breath as Sniper, glistening with sweat, breaks into a magnificent run and manages a full somersault before making a near-perfect landing and then raising a single fist in a triumphant pose.    
  
"And there you have it, everyone! Let's give it up one more time for Jackaroo Wankah!"    
  
The appreciative crowd showers the stage with flowers and bills as the Sniper grandstands some more before shuffling off the stage. Moments later, the emcee announces for the VIPs to come forward, and you join a handful of other excited fans for the tour. As the others clamor around the stars of the show for autographs and answers to their questions, you hang back and enjoy the view.    
  
The Sniper, of course, garners the biggest reaction. While you slip unnoticed into a corner of the room, he endures being felt up by a gaggle of giggling women (and what you think might be one drag queen). After what feels like forever, the others are escorted out of the room by the security staff; one of them spots you, but when the Sniper clears his throat, he just gives you a slight nod and moves on out of the room.    
  
You wait for the voices to fade out of hearing before speaking up. "You couldn't come up with a better stage name than 'Jackaroo Wanker'?"    
  
The Sniper shrugged. "It's not loike it matters wot they call me when I go up there." He then leaned back and gestured to himself. "So wot did you think?"    
  
"Don't quit your day job." When he pretends to be hurt at this assessment, you add with a smirk: "Because I intend to keep you all to myself."    
  
"Do you now?" His grin is as wide as yours. "I've got t' warn you, though, I don't come cheap."    
  
"I'd imagine you wouldn't." You make your way over to him and settle into his lap. "So at what point did you decided that you wanted to be a stripper?"    
  
"Moi stoipend from th' ADF was running low and I wasn't bagging a lot 'f bounties back then. Tried a bit 'f everything, really, before I soined up with these blokes. Turned out other than 'eadshots, this was something I was good at, so."    
  
You still can't quite believe that the Sniper is so nonchalant about all of this. "I don't suppose your parents know about this."    
  
He shrugs. "Didn't see any point in keeping it from them. They'd foind something t' whinge about even if I were th' bloody king 'f Oz."    
  
You kiss him on the nose. "There goes my plan to buy an island, make it a micro-nation, and name you dictator for life."    
  
"I'll put in on moi list 'f things t' troi when I get sick 'f th' Snoiping business," he deadpans back.    
  
You slip your hands through the opening in his shirt. "Is having sex with me as often as possible one of those items?"    
  
"Course not." He leans forward to nibble at your chin. "Already doing that, aren't I?"


End file.
